The Multiplier Concept
by Grey Silverstone
Summary: Here we go... Sherlock has a case. He thinks. John puts up with a lot. And, *drumroll* Irene. Adler. As hipster as she can get in the 21st century. There will be murder! There will be mystery! There will be innuendo! R&R!
1. Chapter 1

***Is this where the disclaimer goes? **No, I do not own Sherlock (but I do own this plot). All this loveliness is first and foremost Doyle/BBC/Moffat/Gatiss. If they ever decide to change this... No? Fine. Ruin my christmas. ;_;

:)

Enjoie.

**The Multiplier Concept**

**Part 1: **Nothing really happens. It's mostly an introduction. And something I can fully and completely see happening. I love these boys. :)

John Watson walked up the stairs to the flat; his leg had grown accustomed to his daily trek up and down the little torture devices. It was barely a twinge now.

Especially when he was distracted.

A red, viscous fluid was dripping its way down from the top of the wooden stairs, leaking form under the half open door. It looked like blood, and, living with Sherlock Holmes…

"_Sherlock?" _He slammed the door open with his cane and slid hallway across the floor.

Sherlock Holmes, six feet plus, curly-haired, black-locked, broad shouldered and skinny framed, lay spread eagled across the floor, eyes closed and his grinning skull perched on his chest.

"Oh, my _god_." Before Watson could crouch next to him to feel for a pulse, ice blue eyes slid open, regarding Watson balefully from their cradle on the floor.

"What?"

The familiar, infuriated feeling that always rose whenever Holmes was concerned started rising from somewhere around his ankles. "'_What?' _You're _covered _in _blood_. The whole _flat's _covered in it!" And it was; the fluid dripped form the desk and shelves. Even the easy chair was dyed a shade darker.

"It's not blood," Sherlock drawled petulantly, eyes falling closed once more, folding his long-fingered hands across his chest. John looked back at him, unsure of what he'd just heard.

"What?"

"It. Is. Not. _Blood_. That is what you were nervous about?" John stayed quiet, blinking back at him. With a sigh, Sherlock sat up, catching the skull as it rolled into his lap. "It's an iron-potassium compound. With some hydrochloric—Look, it looks like blood, it smells like blood, probably _tastes _like it, though I wouldn't advise it, don't touch it, actually. At all. And yet—it's not."

It took John a long moment to respond. "I don't believe this."

He could almost mistake the look on Sherlock's face for confusion.

"Why not? You could test it, I guarantee you it's not—oh. I thought you'd be relieved. Look, I haven't shot anything." He gestured behind him to the untouched wall and collapsed back onto the floor, toying with the skull.

"No, you haven't. You've moved on to destroying _the rest of the flat_." He rubbed at the stubble across his chin. "Why can't you get a hobby? Read a _book_, for Christ's sake. Go out."

"Can we?"

"Not me—I've got work. And then—I've just got work."

"Work."

"At the surgery?"

"With Sarah."

"No—Well, yes. Same place, not exactly _together—"_

"I meant afterwards. Your 'and then?'"

"Oh. Well, I suppose."

"Hm."

"_What_?" John asked, exasperated. Every time Sarah came up, it seemed to narrowly precede a row. And now, he was exhausted, and irritable, and all the adrenalin from the fake spilled blood was making his head hurt, never mind his let.

"Nothing," Sherlock answered, curling up. John sighed and grabbed his coat.

"I'm sure Lestrade will call sooner or later."

As he left, he could've sworn that Sherlock muttered, "So _bored_."

He said a silent prayer for the wall.


	2. Chapter 2

***Is this where the disclaimer goes? **No, I do not own Sherlock (but I do own this plot). All this loveliness is first and foremost Doyle/BBC/Moffat/Gatiss. If they ever decide to change this... No? Fine. Ruin my christmas. ;_;

:)

Enjoie.

**Part 2: **More entertainment. Sherlock is a child. John is a saint. Guess why Sher's so moody, hm?

3

"Nice night?"

John had to hit on the light to see the source of the disembodied voice that floated up to him from out of the darkness. A good eight hours later, and Sherlock was still in the same place, strewn across the floor. The flake blood had dried to a sticky, gelatinous substance smearing across his shoes as he walked.

"Yes… thanks. Have you moved, since I've left?"

"Did you take Sarah out?"

"Yes. Have you even eaten?"

"Where'd you go?"

"Dinner and a movie .Why are you still on the floor?"

"_Boring._"

"_Sherlock_." He looked back over at him, blinking. "Get up."

"Why should I ?" He rolled his eyes as Watson glared back. "Fine."

He staggered to his feet, shaking out his stagnant muscles. "Happy?"

"Not until you've cleaned… _this_." He grimaced. "and it wasn't boring. First date, and she almost _died_. I think anything out would be a step up form _that_."

"Hm."

"Look, it's not like you've ever even—" He backpedaled immediately. But, thank the lord; he was interrupted—saved, really—by the chiming of his phone. "Hello? John Watson."

"_John, thank god. Listen, is Sherlock there? I've got something for you two."_

"Lestr—what? Why haven't you called him?"

"_I _have_, at least a dozen times. He must've lost his phone."_

Sherlock studiously avoided John's eye, walking over to the chair to pluck at his violin strings. The violin that was the only thing untouched by the red goo.

"Okay. All right. Thank you. Fine." John snapped his phone closed, and then open again, and dialed a number.

The phone in Sherlock's pocket chimed loudly.

He pulled it out and put it to his ear.

"John, why on hearth are you calling me?"

John walked back over and plucked the phone from Sherlock's hands. Fourteen missed calls.

"Why were you ignoring Lestrade's calls? No—" He pushed Sherlock back as he tried to step around him. "Answer me. Why didn't you answer it? You've been complaining about your _boredom_, and here, right up your alley-"

"I didn't hear it."

"Like hell."

"I fell asleep."

John sighed and rubbed at the aching spot between his eyes. "Fine. You know what? I don't care. Let's just go see what he wants." Watson turned to go, and then turned back, stopping Sherlock short. "And get that goo out of your hair."

* * *

*Oh, quick note. I've decided, John took the night shift, at the surgery. I want the crime scene to be early morning. Far more shocking that way. ^^ *twiddles fingers*


	3. Chapter 3

***Is this where the disclaimer goes? **No, I do not own Sherlock (but I do own this plot). All this loveliness is first and foremost Doyle/BBC/Moffat/Gatiss. If they ever decide to change this... No? Fine. Ruin my christmas. ;_;

**_NOTENOTENOTENOTENOTE _** REVIEWS. Thank you! / Ooh... I've got the warm fuzzies. :D So, now we get to the meat of this. It is my goal to go on for AS LONG AS POSSIBLE. I PROMISE. 3

And, quick note. I've written Irene in now, but I'm stuck... I can't decide if I want her cunning and brilliant (eg, Alex Harper from White Collar) or a complete psychopath (Alice Morgan from Luther) or some combination of both... Input valued, cuddled, and appreciated. :)

* * *

**Part 3: **Wherein a case is delivered. Not literally. Although... *hobbles away to typey-hole*

Watson stopped short. The other flat was pristine—it was all gleaming whit floors and gleaming white furniture, glass and chrome. it was almost, he thought, creepy—it was too clean, too neat, as if no one really lived there.

And no one did, not any more—the body, that of a young man, early to mid twenties, trim and all dressed up in a neatly cut black suit—hung from the low ceiling next to a futuristic chandelier, by one bare ankle, blue and white as the rest of the flat. The other was next to it, fully shoed and socked.

A white rose, torn from his lapel, rested between his black-painted lips. His eyes were wide open, and his brows up, giving him a look of macabre surprise.

"_There _you are, took you two long enough—Sherlock? The body's here… Where is he going?" Lestrade shot John a look of disbelief. John relayed it to Sherlock's back, to the hallway where he stood snapping his gloves into place and walking into the next room.

"_Sherlock." _John limped after him. "The murder scene is _that _way—"

"What did you call it?"

John rolled his eyes. The man had heard him. "Murder?"

"It wasn't murder."

"Sorry, what?" Lestrade squinted their direction.

"It was a suicide."

"A what?"

"Su-i-cide. The man killed himself."

Lestrade snorted. "Of course. I'm sure he was tired of it all, decided to off himself, tied himself _to the ceiling_ for the hell of it—"

"That part wasn't him, don't be ridiculous."

"_What_?" Lestrade shut his eyes and breathed out hard, veins across his head standing at attention. "How'd you arrive at that?"

Sherlock didn't answer—John tried not to smile as the other man moved form room to room, not touching a thing, only observing. HE knew hat Holmes' mind was moving faster than a bullet train, rushing through a thousand different causes and consequences. In a moment, he was in the room with the body. He pulled a stool out from the bar and stood on it, twisting the bare foot to get a better angle on it. He slid out his square magnifier, glanced through for a moment, and then let the foot go and jumbed down from te stool. The magnifier sid back out as he examined the man's mouth, smearing the black paint as he pried the lips apart. With the slightest of smiles, he grasped the pristine white bud and pulled.

A long stemmed, whole flower, thorns and leaves and all, lay across his hands.

Lestrade looked faintly green. John could sympathize; it was nauseating, the thought of the flower stuffed down there… did he have to _swallow _it? Lestrade asked the question before he had to.

"Swallowed, or… inserted?"

In answer, Sherlock tossed the bloom to—at—him, smiling when the inspector stepped back quickly, hands behind him.

"Post-mortem. No blood on the stem. There are prescription pills hidden within his pillowcase, scarring across the inside of his arms, traces of blood on needles in his bathroom cupboards. Nicks across his ankle from the cord, where someone wasn't careful and it split skin, but no blood. Someone hung him up here _after _his death, but he killed himself. Oh, and…" Sherlock padded down his pockets, pulling a crisp white envelope from the inside. "And there was this."

_To __**-**_

_I know well what you're capable of. I want nothing to do with it. I quit._

_ There 's nothing left for me to do. __Tell I I'm sorry. It's hers now._

_ Not my legacy,_

_ Jeufois_

"Damn," Lestrade said quietly, rubbing at his chin. Angrily, he knocked over one of the space age white chairs. "The _who_ did _this_?"

Sherlock's face was expressionless, but John sighed. He'd seen this part before. Sleepless nights, he thought, here I come. I know that look. And he did, well. The game was on.

* * *

* Another note. I've given up on timelines. I don't think Sherlock knows how to tell time, anyway. But sweetness and other bits are to follow. :D This is fun.

3


	4. Chapter 4

*insert disclaimer here*

Elsewhere, gracias, for the reviews, and, also, I've got a lot of this actually _written_... It's just a matter of typing it...

Read. Enjoy. Review. :)

And, also, mental image for you: Listen to OneRepublic's 'Everybody Loves Me' and picture Sherlock turning around, slowly...

*fangirlysigh*

heehee.

* * *

A commotion at the door made them all turn around.

"No—Let _go _of me, I _live _here, for gods' sake—_Oh my god._"

The voice belonged to a girl—a woman—hair wild and tousled as she elbowed her way out of the three-man barrier to see into the flat. She stared up at Sherlock—he was the next barrio, and he stared back at her coolly, ignoring her wild eyes. "Where is he?" she demanded, the fists balled at her waist promising damage if the question was answered incorrectly.

Sherlock stepped to the side before John could say anything, allowing her to pass.

A strangled sob tore its way from the woman's throat. She ran forwards and fell to her knees in front of the man's placid face.

"_Hey_. What are you doing? Someone _get her out of here_."

"Allow me." Sherlock stepped forwards and, with an arm wrapped around the woman's shoulders, pulled he to her feet. Her wide eyes were round and vacant as he led her to an egg white sofa. She collapsed onto it, unblinking, dark face ashen.

Sherlock sat in front of her. He waved a hand before her face. "Can you hear me?" He clapped once, a forceful, harsh sound. She jumped a little bit.

"Yes—yes."

John walked over to sit by her side. She was beautiful—softly curling hair framed a delicately, rounded featured face, lightly kohled eyes and black cherry lips. She looked as if she could cry—but, John noted carefully, her eyes were dry.

"What's your name?" Sherlock asked.

"V-violet. Violet Hunt." She cleared her throat. As soon as she had started to speak, it seemed, the tears had flowed freely, and black rivulets coated her high cheekbones. "He, h-h-h-h-he's, he's—"

"Dead, yes," Sherlock finished, impatiently. "What can you tell us about him?"

"Ira? He, h-h-h-he—" She broke down again, amber eyes narrowed to dusky slits as the tears came.

John waited for Sherlock to ask about enemies, or family, or motive. The girl must've known him well; no one cried like that for strangers.

"How long was he depressed?" Sherlock asked instead, leaning forwards and watching Violet's face for lies.

Her tears stopped cold, her whole being seizing up in surprise. and then she sagged, shoulders seeming to curl in on herself. "He wasn't," she said coldly. "You think he did this." She sounded hollow; there was no surprise in her voice. "Think he killed himself, and, what? _Hung himself by his feet_?" She stood, shaking, eyes nearly red with anger. Without another word, she turned away from Sherlock. He caught her hand, pulling her to a stop.

She turned back, tears sparkling on her sweeping lashes, lips tightly pressed in anger. _"What else_."

Sherlock let her go, looking almost surprised. He glanced down at the hand he had been holding. "Nothing."

She stalked away from him from the me, pas the body, with a shudder, and pas the forensics team, out the door and down the stairs.

"Ah, ma'am—someone go after her," Lestrade said, nodding at Sally to head after the woman.

Sherlock examined his long fingers, rubbing something between them.

"What is it?" Watson asked, looking past him at the body. A breeze had started; it swayed grotesquely on it string.

Sherlock opened his hand to him. "Paint."

Black pigment was smeared across his fingertips from where he had caught Violet by the hand.


	5. Chapter 5

*Disclaimer: BBC, Moffat (who I now forgive for the Wonka TARDIS), Doyle (who will always be the godfather)*

Quick note: So, I realise that I tend to mix and mash 'John' and 'Watson.' I'm sorry. I am. I just can't help it. Somehow, this twisted little thing that is my brain pictures him different ways, and serious=Watson and adorable=John. It's inexplicable. It's unexplainable. :) whoops.

Sorry.

Also, I know the chapters are all pretty short; I don't much fancy line breaks. But it's why I add more than one chapter at a time; it means that I _do _get things up, that I _don't _misplace things (-_-) and that it does get updated. You just have to press the button more than once...

So, yes. Enjoy.

As alway, R&R!

Less-than-three,

GS

* * *

"Isn't that evidence?" John asked.

They were back at the flat; Sherlock had the suicide not in his hands. HE stared at it as if trying to see past its thinly-worn surface to whatever it was hiding from him.

"Look at this," he said, ignoring John's question entirely. "'Tell I I'm sorry.' What does that mean?" He redirected his attention—what little of it he could expend—to Watson.

John rolled his eyes. "A typo."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "It's handwritten."

"Then … whatever you'd call a writing mistake. Or, I don't know, a person. He's apologizing to someone named 'I.'"

Sherlock half- smiled. Watson resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was like Sherlock's equivalent of patting him on the head. He wasn't _that _dense. "Precisely. A name. Or an initial." Sherlock was on his feet, heading towards the door, a mad smile tugging his face in two. "We find _I_, we find the killer, we find the answer."

"I thought you said it was a suicide?"

"Yes, but the _why_, the _why_, John. Coming?"

_Unfortunately_. He doubted he could help following, even if he tried. And so, as always, it seemed, the good doctor followed.

"Did Lestrade ever find that 'Violet?'" Sherlock asked coolly, flagging down a taxi.

"No," John answered, climbing in after him.

"He won't."

Of course, he asked. "And why's that?"

"Because she doesn't exist."

Sometimes, he was convinced that the only reason Sherlock kept him around was for a willing audience. He didn't need him, and he could certainly function without him. But a keen ear, someone who actually _cared _about what he had to say, on a daily, even mundane basis, was something he didn't get much of. But he was _interesting_. John couldn't help it. Even when it was torture.

Times like now. John waited—in vain—for him to explain. "Feel free to explain," he finally snapped. It was clear that Sherlock expected him to piece it all together; he wasn't going to.

"The paint that was across her fingers—I thought it was from the dead man's lips."

"And it wasn't?"

"It was, but that's not all. There was also this—" He passed John a thin white card.

"Her—you stole her ID?" John stared up at his almost-friend, unreasonably surprised.

"—in her pocket," Sherlock continued, oblivious. "Smeared with the same pigment. It's fake. Give it a sniff." John complied, and grimaced. "Polyurethane. Plastic. Wrong kind, or, at the very least, wrong manufacturing technique. Cheap. It's a fake ID. Fake name. Violet Hunt, or, at least, the woman we know _as _Violet Hunt, does not exist."

Incredible. "Have you told Lestrade?"

"No." A small smile played across his lips. "First, we find 'I.' _Then_ we tell Lestrade."

The strangest—and so, probably accurate—thought occurred to John. "You think Vio—_she_ could be 'I'?"

Sherlock's smile grew. A yes, then. "Perhaps."


End file.
